The Swap Meet
by T Traveller
Summary: Fifty Shades meets Freaky Friday: Two strangers, one male and one female, wake to find they are inhabiting another person's body. Along with the physical issues attendant to the exchange, they also inherit each other's problems. OOC/AU


**Gentle Reader,**

 **This is a preview/excerpt of a little something I've been working on. I've written 25K words so far, and will begin publication upon completion of TLO. If you have questions, PM me.**

 **All the best, Paula AKA T Traveller**

 **XXXXXXX**

 **The Swap Meet**

 **Sunday, June 5, 2011**

 **Seattle**

 **Anastasia**

I wake with an erection and pressure on my bladder. I've heard Kate talk about boys and their 'morning wood.' The urge to pee feels the same with either gender, but experiencing erections is altogether special.

I need to use the toilet, but first I stretch and luxuriate in the splendor of Mr. Grey's bed. This mattress is a heavenly cloud and these sheets feel like silk. The thread count must be astronomical, and they are probably stitched by hand in some exotic locale. It must be nice to be Mr. Grey, though all this wealth surely comes with long hours and other personal sacrifices. I'll learn more about that tomorrow when I report to Grey House.

The bedside clock says it's a quarter past eight. Taylor and Sawyer are most likely still out following through with plans for Mrs. Lincoln. I don't understand it all, but Taylor seems to have everything in hand, and he seems pretty happy with himself. It's nice to know I'm not alone in my negative feelings toward Mrs. Lincoln.

Despite yesterday morning's shock and fright at waking up in a man's body, I slept well last night. The fine linens and black out curtains certainly helped. The remote for the black out curtains is close at hand, and I pull all of the curtains back to let the sunshine in. Seattle tends to be a bit dreary, even in summer.

The erection is gone. Out of female habit, I sit to urinate, pushing the penis down with my hand and aiming into the toilet. Last night I made Mr. Grey's penis ejaculate twice. Knowing I can see his penis whenever I want, and feeling a weird ownership of it, has me in a constant state of low-level excitement. I don't think of Grey's dick all the time, but when I'm alone and can relax, the first thing I do is reach down into his pants and hold it. Then I play with it, stroking, tugging, massaging. Most of the time I double fist it, using one hand to stroke his balls, and the other for the penis.

As a woman, I never masturbated, but now, as Mr. Grey, it's become a compulsion. Kate bought me a vibrator two birthdays ago, but I've never unwrapped it. She thinks I should at least try out the contraption, but if it's anything like hers, it will make too much noise to suit me. If I used it, I wouldn't want anyone to ever know.

Mr. Grey's shower is a treat. I enjoy the perks of impersonating a billionaire. The river rock shower floor feels a bit like a massage. Mr. Grey has very sexy feet and I enjoy looking down to admire them. The bathroom is masculine in décor and the rock gives it an outdoorsy feel.

As I soap up Mr. Grey's body, I know exactly what I'll do while in here. It's the same thing I did twice just before bed last night. The slick suds and warm water feel good on Mr. Grey's penis. The very best spot is on the underside, just below the tip. It doesn't take much effort to make Mr. Grey's beautiful cock cum.

Kate has a folder full of dicks on her desktop, and she enjoys showing them to me, gauging my reaction. Mr. Grey's penis looks huge in comparison to Kate's collection of photos. Kate thinks I'm really missing out by being a virgin, and now that I'm inhabiting Grey's sexy frame, I do believe she's correct.

I wonder how many vaginas this dick has visited. I'm the tiniest bit jealous of those ladies. Who am I kidding? I'm totally jealous.

Grey would probably be horrified to know a mousy thing like me has taken up residence in his exquisite body.

I wonder how many times Mr. Grey has been in love. Exactly how much heart break has Mr. Grey endured? Does he get lonely? He doesn't seem to have any friends to speak of. He only has his rent-a-friend staff. They seem the closest thing to pals for Grey. If the circumstances were different, I'd be Grey's friend. I would cook for him, share my favorite books, and listen to his problems.

As I dry off, I pat the small scars on his chest. Chicken pox?

His pecs are impressive. He must work out every day. Oh, crap. Does this mean I have to work out to maintain Grey's physique?

I walk to the closet and turn in front of the three-way mirror. Grey's ass is to die for. Those dimples just above each cheek slay me. The man's body is a walking work of art.

Pulling on a pair of black boxer briefs, I reluctantly cover up Grey's magnificent manhood. I pull out jeans and a blue linen button down. I'm impressed with Mrs. Jones' laundry skills. The shirt is pressed to perfection with a light application of starch.

I'm relaxing this morning. No socks or shoes for these gorgeous feet. I think I've developed a foot fetish for Mr. Grey.

When I finally make It to the kitchen, Mrs. Jones is holding her sides, doubled over in laughter. Taylor and Sawyer have their heads thrown back in raucous rejoice.

"Good morning, sir. Come see this footage of Mrs. Lincoln." Taylor hands me an iPad. He reaches down and touches the play icon.

It's video of the Bitch Troll with a collar and leash on all fours. She is tethered to a bench, wearing a blindfold. She barks and howls, occasionally sitting up to beg, her tongue hanging out. She's wearing floppy dog ears.

"What in the world is that?" A giggle and a snort escape me. I turn the iPad to Grey's staff and point at Lincoln's rear end. "It looks like a raccoon tail."

"Yes, sir. It's a raccoon tail attached to a butt plug. Mrs. Lincoln insisted Sawyer perform the insertion. Don't worry, sir, he doubled up on the latex gloves. She's also wearing nipple clamps, but it's difficult to see from the angle of this video. We're hoping the Nooz caught the full effect."

"Thank you, Sawyer, for taking one for the team," I say. "You deserve a bonus for performing such an odious task."

Sawyer gives me a big grin.

"You're welcome, sir. When I dropped her off, she tried to give the plug back." Sawyer shudders at the memory. "I told her to keep everything with your compliments. She was thrilled, and she's awaiting your next instructions."

"Don't tell me I have to speak to her again," I complain.

"Sir, just one more time. Hopefully, tomorrow's scene will be the last one."

"When will the Nooz run the photos?"

"They have video and still shots. I got them to agree not to run their piece until tomorrow afternoon, after the Coping Together board meeting."

"What do you have planned for tomorrow?"

"Do you trust me, sir?" I have no choice but to trust. "All in good time. Don't worry about a thing."

"Yes, perhaps it's best if I don't know," I tell Taylor.

"You have a session scheduled with Bastille this afternoon." Taylor studies my face for a reaction.

"Who is Bastille?" By now, Taylor should realize that Mr. Grey doesn't remember any of his past.

"Your trainer. You've missed your run the past two mornings. Would you like to go for one now?"

Running? All I've ever been able to manage is a brisk walk. I do need to maintain Mr. Grey's routine as much as possible, and I do want to maintain Grey's fantasy fueling physique.

"That sounds like an excellent idea. I'll change and meet you back here in a few minutes."

I don't know how I'll complete a run, but I need to keep up with appearances.

Mr. Grey has a wide variety of athletic footwear. Hmm. Golf shoes. I know nothing about golf, and I certainly hope I won't be called upon to publicly embarrass Grey with my lack of skills.

A pair of bright green Nikes catch my attention. T-shirt, shorts, socks, Nikes. I think I'm set. Kate always runs with her iPod. I wonder if Mr. Grey has one. I really do need to take inventory of this apartment, and figure out what is available to me.

Taylor is waiting for me by the elevator.

"Do I listen to music when I run?" The man seems to know every detail of Grey's life. And why shouldn't he? It seems as if Grey and Taylor are joined at the hip.

"No, sir. It's a safety issue. If you're listening to music, you might not hear traffic sounds or other warnings. You are very safety conscious, which is why you have security."

"Well, lead the way. Do you mind setting the pace, and perhaps making it a bit slower than what I usually do?" As fit as this body appears to be, I wonder how I will keep up.

"Sir, are you not feeling up to par?" Taylor appraises my well-being as we take the elevator down to the lobby.

"I'm fine. Just set the pace, please."

As I step out onto the sidewalk, a summer breeze ruffles Mr. Grey's copper curls. I've decided redheads are my thing.

Taylor takes off jogging, and I follow. Mr. Grey's body is most accommodating, a model of grace and power. I find speed and endurance I never possessed in my own skin. We jog to the marina and back again. I'm not sure how far we ran, or for how long, but by the time we return I believe I'm on a runner's high. I feel physically better than I've felt in my life.

After another soaping and more masturbation in Grey's shower, I enjoy brunch prepared by Mrs. Jones.

This is the life. If only I didn't have to go to Grey House tomorrow, I'd lounge around here, read, and let Mrs. Jones feed me all day.

 **Christian**

I don't sleep any better in Miss Steele's body than I do in my own. I've tossed and turned all night on her lumpy mattress and limp, floppy pillow. Her sheets are cheap, rough, and scratchy. I fucking hate being poor.

Her laptop is broken, and according to Kavanagh, Miss Steele doesn't have money for a repair, much less a replacement.

I went to bed at ten, an early night for me, but I was exhausted from my first day of impersonating Anastasia Steele. I also wanted to retire early, because I was so eager to explore Miss Steele's body and play with her pussy.

Her tits are exquisite. I love touching her firm, high breasts. The size is Goldilocks perfect, not too small and not too big. The bedside light is left on, so I can watch as her nipples pebble under my touch. Her skin is silky, soft, and smooth, reminiscent of the ivory keys on Grandmother Trevelyan's antique piano.

I push my fingers through the crisp curls covering her mound. My fingers find her nub and her vaginal opening. I move my fingers, slowly at first and then with more urgency.

I experienced my first female orgasm within three minutes. It was extraordinary, and not so different from my past orgasms as a male. The interlude seemed to last a few seconds shorter than what I typically experience, but that was made up for by being able to get off again ten minutes later.

The two orgasms knocked me out, but at midnight I woke with a backache. At four a.m. I woke with headache. Not finding any ibuprofen in Miss Steele's bathroom, I search the kitchen cabinets. In the process of stumbling around in the half dark in new surroundings, I knock over a bowl of fruit. It makes a terrible clatter, but the bowl is melamine, so there's no breakage.

As I pick bananas and oranges off the floor, I look up to find Miss Kavanagh.

"Shit. Sorry I woke you. I have a backache and the worst motherfucking headache. I was looking for some Advil."

"You never swear, and now you're a rival for a sailor. All I have is Tylenol. It's in my bathroom. C'mon, sweetie."

I follow Miss Kavanagh to her bathroom, and reflect on how dependent I am on her. I go back and forth between feeling weak, defeated and strong, defiant. But my constant is Miss Kavanagh. She has been so understanding of Miss Steele's 'memory loss,' and she cares for her friend in a sisterly way. To be sure, Kavanagh is bossy and dominant, but I believe her intentions are good.

"Thank you." I take the paper cup of water she hands me and gulp it down with the Tylenol.

"Are you having another of those hormone headaches?"

"I don't know what those are. I figure this is just stress." Kavanagh has no idea how much stress her roommate is under.

"Well, try to get some sleep. Let's go out for brunch later. My treat."

"Sure. Thanks again."

I crawl back into Miss Steele's miserable bed and fall into a state of half-sleep. The Tylenol isn't worth a shit, and should be reserved for children. My back hurts worse than ever, and now there's a dull ache in my pelvis. I press on my lower abdomen, in an attempt to massage away the cramping sensation. As I squirm to find a comfortable position, I feel something warm and wet between my legs.

What the hell is that?

I pull back the covers, flip on the lamp, and see a bright red splotch on the bottom sheet. It has soaked through the pajama bottoms.

Miss Steele has gotten her period, and I'm left to deal with it. This is just the shit icing on top of the fucking cake.

I scramble to the toilet, and when I relieve myself, I'm surprised by the copious amount of blood. I thought women only menstruated a couple of tablespoons each month. That's what I learned in health class, but this looks like so much more blood than that. I try to staunch the mess with some toilet paper. With paper in place I feel fairly sure I won't bleed all over the tile floor, as I clamber around under the sink in search of feminine products. What am I looking for? Pads or tampons?

The only thing I find is a near empty box with two tampons left. I search the box for instructions, but there are none. These aren't Tampax or some other brand I've heard of. These are some no-name generic store brand tampons. I rip the paper off one and give it a look-see.

How exactly does this work? There are two cardboard tubes, and the cotton wadding is attached to the string. I've yanked a couple of these out of submissives, but I have no idea how to insert one. I play with it to figure it out, and end up pulling the damn thing apart, then can't get it back together again. Now I'm down to one tampon.

It looks like I stick the fat end up the vagina, and then push the skinny piece. This is messy business. I slide the applicator up as far as I dare, and then push the narrow piece of cardboard like a plunger. It's very uncomfortable and the cardboard applicator tip is a bit rough. Do all tampons feel like this, or just the cheap off-brand variety? I'm surprised by the discomfort. For some reason, I thought it probably felt good when women stick things up their vaginas. This is a topic needing further exploration.

As I wash up, I wiggle and move to make sure the tampon is secure. The last thing I need is for the damned thing to work loose.

I'll need more tampons and maybe some pads. While I'm at it, I better stock up on Advil. With this new life, I feel a series of headaches coming on.

I find Miss Steele's purse on top of the dresser. I look through it and find two more tampons. I'm already feeling sort of sticky and damp down there, and I'm sure I'll be using those soon. I need to get to a store, and I need money. This girl has sixteen dollars in her wallet. Is that enough to purchase what I need? Her debit card is here, but I don't know the pin number.

Fuck! I hate being poor. Being Anastasia Steele absolutely sucks. I wonder where she is. And who is in my body?

As I dig through the purse, I discover her shitty flip phone at the bottom. It's dead. Where the fuck is the charger? I walk the perimeter of the room in search of electrical outlets. I'm impressed with the number of outlets, and find one behind a nightstand, with the charger plugged in. I pull the cord up and set a book on top of it, so it won't fall behind the nightstand again. As soon as this puppy is charged, I'm calling my cell phone. I wonder who will answer.

What will I say?

 _Hey, mother fucker, this is Christian Grey and I want my goddamn life back._

The cramps are getting worse. I really don't feel like going to the store, and this Tylenol does nothing for me. I need a drink. Where's the alcohol around here? There's got to be some. Kavanagh strikes me as one who imbibes on a regular basis.

I find wine and beer in the fridge. A bottle of chardonnay stands at attention waiting for me. It's already been opened, but there's only a bit missing. Not feeling the need for a glass, I decide to take the bottle back to Miss Steele's room and swig away.

I'm tired, and I want to crawl into bed, but the sheets are dirty with blood. Where's Mrs. Jones when I need her? I haven't a clue how to change sheets, and I feel so lousy I don't really care about lying in filth right now.

How the hell did this happen? I, Christian Grey, CEO, and wunderkind of the mergers and acquisitions world, have a tampon inside me. I'm lying on dirty sheets, drinking cheap wine straight from the bottle, and waiting for a goddamn flip phone to charge.

Obviously this has something to do with that Will Grant asshole who was in my office on Friday evening. He said change was nothing to fear, but this defies all the laws of science. I live and breathe science and technology, and this has me completely off center. Grant said he weaves magic, and that he used to be a mortal. What the fuck. There's no such thing as magic, only the immutable laws of physics.

I thought he was just a crazed nut job out to threaten a billionaire, but he must be more than that because I now inhabit a woman's body.

"Embrace the change," Grant told me. If I learn the lessons this can teach me, I'll be better for it.

But what's the point of self-improvement, if I can't use it in my own life, my life as Christian Grey. My old life wasn't perfect by any measure, but it was my life, and I worked hard to earn all the perks that came with being Christian Grey.

If Grant is the one who switched me, why? Why me? Why Miss Steele's body?

The cramps have been dulled by the wine. Woozy and buzzed, I quickly relax, thankful to have one more day before I have to fully step into the role of Miss Steele.


End file.
